You can't always get what you want
by astroanna
Summary: An old idea, maybe, but here's my take on it...may be kind of depressing, but there it is...


Wilson dragged his limbs, so much heavier than usual somehow, into his apartment. He glanced around the familiar surroundings and could not remember them ever being so cold; so uninviting. Hardly conscious of what he was doing he closed the door and threw himself onto his couch, his head falling into his hands for several long minutes. Finally, exhaustion flooding through him, he fell back against the cushions, not even bothering to remove his shoes. Slowly, the blissful oblivion of sleep took hold of him.

Wilson was walking through a dense, lush, forest. It was a sunny day, but the canopy of leafy trees kept the entire area in perpetual shadow. Soon, however, he broke the tree line to come upon a fantastic scene. Twenty feet in front of the tree line where Wison was standing was the shoreline of a pristine, crystal clear lake. Perfectly reflected on its mirror-smooth surface was the image of the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Even though Wison realized he was dreaming, he couldn't help but find the image comforting, and he stretched himself out on the short stretch of beach, gazing at the peaceful, tranquil image before him.

"Not a bad spot you've found," came the familiar, deep voice.

Wilson jumped to his feet, spinning on his heel to face the new arrival. Standing before him, dressed in his usual dark T-shirt and broken-in jeans, was Gregory House. He was smiling, a smile Wilson rarely saw, and it was a smile that could disarm.

"I knew I was dreaming," Wilson said quietly.

House nodded, glancing around.

"Figures," he said with his usual sarcasm, "you're so anal when you're awake, even your dreams are perfect."

Wilson did not smile. He stepped toward House, his voice rising along with his anger.

"You're dead! You...you died and I don't want to have to remember everything about you right now. It's too hard."

House shrugged casually, seemingly unaffected by Wilson's outburst.

"Too bad...you're stuck with me, and I'm not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway."

Wilson looked away, his grief and anger almost unbearable. Dropping to the sand once more Wilson shook his head, fighting to keep his composure. After several long moments he felt House's hand on his shoulder and shook it roughly away. The touch seemed to reignite Wilson's ire, and he shot to his feet once more, facing House.

"I don't know if this is real or just a dream," Wilson said through clenched teeth, "but I don't much care. At least I have the opportunity to tell you this." Wilson separated each word for emphasis. "You. Are. An. Ass." Locking eyes with House, he put as much force into his words as he could muster. "I hate you."

House raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms.

"What else is new?"

Wilson shook his head violently.

"No, House, I mean it. You..." he said, pointing accusingly in House's direction, "you left me. You left everyone. You could have done so much good, House. You were a gifted, brilliant doctor, but I guess that wasn't enough. Cuddy was a good boss and friend to you, and damn it, I was a good friend to you, too. But I guess that wasn't enough, either."

"What exactly am I supposed to say?" House said with characteristic bluntness.

"Nothing," Wilson replied, "I want to do the talking for once. Do you know I was the one who found you? You weren't answering your phone, so of course I went over to your place. I saw you lying on the floor so of course I went into doctor mode. It took me about a minute to realize that you were gone. A few seconds later I noticed the empty vials of pills and empty bottles of vodka surrounding me. I...I was never so angry with anyone in my whole life. You were already cold, House...you must have been dead for hours." At this point Wilson's voice broke and he took a deep breath to steady it. Wilson looked up into his friend's face once more.

"I went to your funeral today, you know. It was a beautiful service. There were so many people there, House. Not just your team and Cuddy but so many of your patients who heard about your death. All these people you had saved. Most of them had never met you, of course, but they were all there, House, alive. Alive because of you. Did it mean anything to you, House? Saving those lives?"

"It meant exactly what you knew it meant when I was alive. I was about the win, James, the medicine. I was about solving the puzzle. You knew that about me. You knew me better than anyone else. Don't imagine me as someone I wasn't just because I died."

"You killed yourself, House! You didn't have to die, you chose to. You chose death rather than a life you had to fight through, a life you had to struggle through, a life in which you had to live in pain every day. Seems like the logical choice now that I hear it out loud."

"And yet I still detect a certain level of ire from you, my friend," said House, in mock-seriousness.

"All the logic doesn't change the fact that it would have been your life, House. That you could have solved the next mystery, saved the next life. You could have found meaning in something, anything. Maybe even in our friendship."

"There it is. James Wilson taking on the weight of the world yet again. Typical."

"And you're still making jokes...it figures", Wilson said in disgust.

"I'm not joking," said House, uncharacteristically serious, "not this time. Turns out I know you pretty well, too, Wilson. You want to save everyone, save the world. You wanted to save me, but here's the big secret. I was damaged beyond repair, Wilson. No one could have saved me, not even you."

Wilson looked at his best friend for what seemed a long time.

"I'm sorry, House."

"I know," House said, "but there's no reason for you to be sorry. The only person who thought I was worth saving was you." There was a long silence before House continued. "I cared about you Wilson...I still do. The only person besides Stacy that ever meant anything to me was you."

"Then why did you leave?" Wilson said, his voice barely audible.

"The voice in my head that told me people would be better off without me got too loud to ignore," House said in a maddeningly matter-of-fact way. "It's as simple as that."

"I am not better off," Wilson said, his voice loud again, "and I won't be better off when I have to wake up and live my life without my best friend."

"You'll be okay, James. You'll grieve, get mad...again...maybe have a drunken night of comfort sex with Cuddy," House smiled, "but then you'll look around and realize that you still have a life. You still get to save the world. If there's anyone who can do that, it's you."

Wilson sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't want to have to do any of that without you."

House smiled again.

"But you'll do it. You'll always fight the fight. That's you, Wilson, its always been you."

The two friends looked at each other once more, and with the image of House still playing across the back of his eyelids James Wilson woke up. The first sunlight of morning was filtering through the blinds of his apartment and Wilson got up.

Slowly he got dressed and as he was pouring himself his usual morning coffee the familiar sound of his pager went off. One of his young patients was beginning chemotherapy this morning, and Wilson looked down at his pager, reading the message written there. Glancing at his clock, Wilson clipped his pager to his belt; he should not be late today.


End file.
